"Which way?"
"By Pigeon-Wood."
"By Mayfield?"
"Aye."
"You have a sweetheart there, you say?"
"And so, perhaps, might you, for the pain of passing by."
"No," said I, "I want no sweetheart. To clip a lip en passant, if the lip be warm and willing,—that is one thing. A blush and a laugh and 'tis over. But to journey in quest of gallantries with malice aforethought—no."
"I saw her in a sledge," sighed Nick, sucking his empty pipe. "And followed. Lord, but she is handsome,—Betsy Browse!—and looked at me kindly, I thought.... We had a fight."
"What?"
"Her father and I. For an hour the old man nigh twisted his head off turning around to see what sledge was following his. Then he shouts, 'Whoa!' and out he bounces into the snow; and I out o' my sledge to see what it was he wanted.